Flesh for Lloth
by Shrike
Summary: If title was a question, the answer would be: dark elves. (OR: drow identity crisis :)..ok NOT funny)
1. Default Chapter

Apparently, I lied :). Ok not quite; I REALLY didn't PLAN to write another story. It just happened :). Anyway, the title was inspired by 298 edition of DRAGON magazine that focused on drow. Personally, I wasn't impressed with their descriptions of dark elves and their society in general. What did you think? I know, I know it's a D&D magazine and not a novel, but I like facts served with ah plot :).  
  
Kirr'lov is one and only character in this story and if that name rings any bells - your guess is right! More about it in the end.  
  
Enjoy... I hope you'll get the general idea of story, I'm SO struggling to express myself in English. Ah problems, problems .:)  
  
  
  
CHAPTER 1  
  
The air itself stood still. Soundless darkness spread its sticky, heavy hands in every direction, but not as soothing calm but sinister, always- present burden somewhere in the back of skull of every creature in Underdark. He finally moved, insured by his senses that nothing stalked in this tricky silence. He's been hiding there for long before he decided it was safe to come out. Dark figure kneeled by flat piece of rock that stubbornly protruded from otherwise narrow stone floor and reached up to his knees. One shaky hand placed small candle on it, the other aiding its adjustment for it was only about 2 fingers high piece of wax - all that remained from thin, red candle. Blood red eyes shot left and right nervously, searching tretorously bright bodyheat marks of potential enemies. The silence was as darkness; void of any discordance. Once the candle's been firmly balanced, out of one of numerous piwafwi pockets the drow slowly produced an item. Its flat surface felt unnaturaly smooth under thin black fingers and the drow took time examinig it, passing it from one hand to another and watching it glow brighter and brighter in infrared spectrum as it started to accumulate his body heat. Kirr'lov never held anything even resembling this; in no possible scenario could he have been allowed to. It's been weeks since he first touched it, and since then he kept it hidden and by his side, unexposed even to his own eyes. The dark elf was waiting for an opportunity like this one; he was prepared to wait for decades, keeping his precious secret safe every second of that time. He almost couldn't belive his luck when earlier this day he passed by the last sentry on city border - somehow he managed to leave unnoticed. To get outside quietly was the hardest thing. As a common soldier he won't really be missed for couple of hours; they would notice his departure only if someone attacked his house, and he was more than willing to take those chances. Even though he had to wait only several weeks, a time span equaling nothing in drow life, it seemed like years.  
  
On that crucial day of finding treasure, every drow in the city was summoned to witness justice being enforced on one of lesser noble houses. Which one and why - Kirr'lov didn't care, he left politics to females. It would be his duty to defend his house and Matron no matter who attacked, just as he knew he'd doubtlessly swear an undying loyalty to who ever defeated her. Names of individuals, and individual houses were irrelevant. Priestesses, wizards and soldiers did a thorough job in turning stalagmites and stalactites that supported outer walls of the unfortunate house and the house itself together with its inhabitants, into cinders, pieces of melted rock and dust. It's all been seen before and no one was truly impressed, nobody even remembered the faces of executed nobles any more. The gathered crowd had satisfied its immanent blood-thirst and was scattering away when, in last explosions of light and heat coordinated by priestesses, he saw a bright, stinging flicker amid shapeless mass that had once been craftily sculpted home. As eternal darkness extinguished light, the flicker vanished and the object of reflection laid indistinguishable from rest of debris, for it emanated no light in infrared. But Kirr'lov remembered it's position well and knew the first instant what it was. He waited lingering about , passing nonchalant comments and cruel jokes while inside barely controlling adrenaline rush. What if someone else takes it? What if it gets caved in?! Eventually, Kirr'lov figured the moment was right. He approached the ruin and stood over it knee-deep in still-settling dust. Normally, he'd dig toes under the object and with quick jerk toss it in the air seconds before flawless catch, but this time he didn't dare. He could not even begin with calculations on how heavy or fragile this piece could be, so he swiftly picked it up with fingers trained in agility, hoping the veil of thick dust will aid his plan. It worked out by the drow book of success - furtive and unnoticed. Feeling of sharp and jagged edges in hand indicated that this was only a shard of a bigger piece. Kirr'lov looked across dark stone of what has obviously, till recently, been a chamber of a very powerful priestess, maybe even Matron Mother herself. Only persons of such high station could ever dream of possessing something like this. A commoner like himself couldn't even fantasize about it. After few quick glances the drow decided not to push his luck any further, he has already stayed here for too long and to be noticed by always-suspicious kinsmen was far from wise. Nesting the unexpected treasure as close to his body as possible, Kirr'lov swiftly departed, turning back to thin strands of smoke that rose in places where firm stalagmites of now never-existent-house stood an hour ago.  
  
  
  
The tiny candle was still unlit and Kirr'lov knew he was running out of time. When he carefully placed this object of awe, not bigger than his palm, on rock beside red piece of wax, he did it honorably and solemnly, like performing a sacred ceremony. He had no knowledge of magic, so he required both hands to start fire - otherwise he wouldn't be so quick to let the precious piece out of grasp. Two pieces of flint stone appeared in skilled ebony hands, taken from pocket in one fast and confident motion. Uncomfortably, the dark elf raised head and cautiously looked over each shoulder to make sure he was indeed alone. Nothing. He was as safe as he could be in Underdark, which, again, was not a very comforting standard. Drow just couldn't be paranoid because they REALLY had every reason to suspect and fear everything and everybody. Also they had good reasons to continually look over their shoulders. Kirr'lov heard only beating of his own heart in temples. He was well aware of effects candlelight will enforce on his sight, so he used advantages of innate infravision to scan the area one final time. Kirr'lov was going against survival instincts - as if being here alone wasn't suicidal enough, with light attracting every living thing from miles around and his senses being dulled by that same light and making him practically defenseless - he wouldn't stand a chance. Still this inner drive overruled reason like past hundreds of years in Underdark had taught him nothing. He just had to see! 


	2. two

CHAPTER 2  
  
There was no turning back now; the candle was lit. Igniting spark burned that bridge as it delivered fire. Shy flame - exploding, blinding pain in dark elf's head - flickered in dance, creating untamable shadows on walls of ever-shadowless world. Kirr'lov resignedly squinted with eyes full of tears and agony. Shifting sight to normal spectrum didn't help much; oversensitive drow eyes adjusted very slowly to even such diminutive source of light. (Light was never good news for dark elves.) In struggle with himself to open eyelids that violently protested, Kirr'lov tossed flints away as soon as they fulfilled the purpose and felt his way to the shard. Futile attempt to look at it in this brightness was sabotaged by his own body. Having no alternative, with grunt of frustration, he turned away from candle and waited with shard held devoutly between palms. Gradual adjustment to candlelight seemed endless and helplessness of waiting only fueled fire of anticipation. Kirr'lov suddenly realized he was never so excited in his life; he had been taught never to have great expectations, and hope was ridiculous even as a notion. Leaving safety of house and town, on his own, lighting this candle and growing hopes that anything good might come out of this indicated only one thing - he was turning optimistic. The only problem is optimist cannot be pleasantly surprised.  
  
  
  
When the moment came, drow slowly opened palms before his face and met - eyes in eyes - with stranger who intensely studied his expression. Kirr'lov was, for the first time, looking at his own reflection. Petrified by his own eyes, trying to perceive it was really he, Kirr'lov, behind crimson irises he turned head left, right, up, down and stranger mimicked flawlessly with pupils still fixed on pupils. Skin that appeared bright due to heat in infrared now looked dark as cooled, black lava, in stark contrast to whiteness of hair. In natural light he was a negative image of himself, only eyes remained the same - clear and sharp rubies. Overall expression was one of calm; a poker face. Kirr'lov couldn't believe none of his tumultuous emotions showed to outside observer. Touch of his fingers was familiar, but reflection of thin fingers on smooth stranger's cheek was totally out of place. So this was his façade. He tried to convince himself he had no expectations, only curiosity, but couldn't deny growing bitterness inside. The young face was still watching in perfect calmness. Young? How old was he anyway? He could approximately determine that by his earliest memories of crucial moments in history of the house he served. Only those were recorded and remembered. Nobody bothered to place his insignificant birth anywhere on time-line neither did he care. History of individuals just didn't matter, and noble houses only kept track of theirs until they perished and cease ever to have existed in new, re-written history of survivors.  
  
  
  
Looking at his youthful features Kirr'lov was somehow disappointed. It was face of perfectly ordinary looking drow and that was just the point - it could have been anybody's! This face didn't show trace of particular difficulties he alone had to conquer or hard, jaded life he had - it was fresh and immaculate. Just like his body, finely muscled and graceful in movement, at the first sight revealed sturdy long-trained fighter, Kirr'lov assumed his face would equally reflect experience, wisdom that comes with age, at least. awareness. He knew he would never have one, so he hoped his face would be a living epitaph - wordless record of his accomplishments and life, not this mask. Ageless. Emotionless.  
  
Kirr'lov remembered being bruised, beaten and scarred on countless times, but there was always one of Lloth's priestesses at hand, quick to restore former perfection. He thought himself lucky then; lucky to be flawless in eyes of the Goddess. Those priestesses didn't make him worthy; they stole his life away, leaving only wax puppet. He understood - drow were not beautiful; they were eerily identical. This is why any diversity had to be severely punished and eradicated, why no individuality was tolerated, why declinations were labeled as deformities and considered the worst insult to her majesty, The Spider Queen. Each and every drow had to be expendable; they had to be as identical as it gets to be easily replaceable. Nobody can be anything more than role she/he plays in society and roles are eternal, only holders change. Even names are needless; they address themselves 'matron', 'elderboy', 'secondboy', 'sister', 'weapon master'. Are even offended if their hard-earned station is not mentioned. Drow knew personal achievements didn't matter, the important thing was general success, seen and considered as such in Lloth's eyes. To keep even one scarred drow alive would equal to rising a mutiny against the dark deity and Her autocracy. Scarred face is easily distinguishable, more likely to be remembered - wounds would actually put personality behind deviant features. She could never allow that - distinctive character doesn't fade as fast as corpse decays, and more importantly, is not replaced as simply. She needs pawns, not individuals. That is partly why nobody cares for anybody; it's hard to appear unique and exquisite under such a perfect mask. Mask drow are proud of. No one could care for clones, evil or benevolent. It's a vitious circle. Everybody being equally beautiful is just another way of saying all are equally ugly. Who ever said Lloth had no sense of humor?  
  
His own face appeared dreadful to Kirr'lov now; arrogant, calculating and mocking - even eyes showed no light of life from within. This being will never be allowed to have an identity and dignity it deserves. Drow were the biggest, fattest fly in Queen's web, and were stupid enough to consider themselves blessed to have found Her and this self-imposed hell, to call themselves the chosen ones. The conquerors of all. Among all illusions, the crowning irony was that they were mere instruments of Her hate and evil; as long as they ripped and slayed at Her will, She didn't care whether they lived or died. Immensity of drow cruelty is only the measure of their fear and helplessness. They inflict pain because pain is all they know, like wounded animals that bite the air itself in blind rage; they suffer more fear and dread from Lloth than any of their victims ever received from them. Others have at least one consolation in death; they won't be the ones standing before The Spider Queen and her wrath. Her insisting on chaos is only natural if she wants to keep indisputable reign. Chaos opened doors only to lucky and opportunists - not to real quality. On the contrary; ones with qualities only provoke hate and envy in others, thus making themselves main protagonists in assassination plots. In reign of chaos nothing is sacred or safe, and dark elven, castrating matriarchy is very efficient in enforcing Lloth's will. Or else.  
  
As a male, Kirr'lov never felt direct loyalty to Lloth (she never addressed males), neither did he understand her ways. He wasn't expected to. His way of pleasing her was by obeying to ruling females. Now, it all gained a different perspective and Kirr'lov was suddenly feeling uncomfortable in his own skin. He couldn't force himself to live another day in such vain and hollow existence, deprived of free will and equal chances. What was the alternative? To go and live alone in caves and tunnels of Underdark? Even if he somehow survived long enough, the solitude and ceaseless alert wold take toll on his sanity. He would seek drow company again. Kirr'lov was too bitter to even try deceiving himself; life is stronger than principles. No matter how much he detested ways of his race, he would be forced to return. Maybe someday an exceptional individual will be born, someone who will refuse to extinguish the Light within and prove to be stronger by forsaking this suffocating place and its inhabitants. Kirr'lov knew he wasn't the one. There was only one more possible road to take. It will have to be that way. 


	3. three

CHAPTER 3  
  
Kirr'lov's eyes rested once more on reflection. Was this the face of his only friend? L'ALURL ABBIL ZHAH DOSSTAN.. He smiled cynically and smiling felt good, even if it showed as twisted grimace on face unaccustomed to smiles. Kirr'lov realized he hated that unnatural, chiseled, cold image beyond anything. It only represented defeat of his uniqueness and individuality, and he wore it as slaves bear stigmas of their captivity on their skin. Arm holding the mirror swung with all power rage could muster. Glass shattered, ripping heavy fabric of thick silence. He would never have to meet that stranger again. Now that he killed the puppet, Kirr'lov for the first time felt what was like to be free. Nobody, not even Lloth herself could touch him now. Relieved cracked laughter echoed trough tunnels. Laughter of one who knows no fears or cares; of one who has nothing to lose.  
  
He would make sure his body's never found; any priestess could resurrect corpse and than it would all be only an endless agony. He would never grant them that pleasure. He wouldn't be revived to serve as before, but to be tortured, killed and revived again. Because he dared. Because he succeeded. With closed eyes, Kirr'lov sat facing candle's dance in try to gather all lost years, memories. his identity. It won't be long before light and shatter of glass attract wandering predators. Any second now. Bathed in warm orange light, forever turning his back to tenebrous abyss, the dark elf smiled.  
  
  
  
L'alurl abbil zhah dosstan - The best trusted friend is yourself  
  
  
  
  
  
OK I have some explaining to do, as I promised. This is one pretty symbolical piece. Kirilov is Dostojevski's character. To all Dostojevski purists - I had no intention to twist or banalise Kirilov's philosophy. I deeply believe he's F.M.D.'s best character for numerous reasons I won't elaborate about here.  
  
For those who have no idea what the hell I'm talking about - while Kirilov took his life ONLY to express power of free will and impotence of fear, and thus showed people to start living instead of fearing death, Kirr'lov had plenty of reasons to end his existence. Thus: Kirilov - a philosopher (destroyer of gods and a god himself); Kirr'lov - plain old ordinary suicide. In my opinion, Kirilov represents the first truly free man, liberated from shackles of his own fears, a true Prometheus of free will who sacrificed himself to demonstrate its might. Kirr'lov felt freedom when he symbolically killed scared, calculated puppet in mirror and learned there was really nothing more to fear once you've realized you've got nothing to lose. Of course, he couldn't have lived from that point on, 'cos his matron would have hunted him down like a rabbit, but we don't live in Underdark people :). So live on, every day to the utmost!  
  
  
  
Oh and another thing...when I said all deviant drow must be killed; two exceptions come to my mind - the Faceless One and Jarlaxle from Salvatore's books. I would hardly call Jarlaxle a worshiper of Lloth, so she can't really hurt him. And the Faceless One was striving to restore former looks, until he was replaced by Alton DeVir and couldn't risk getting his old face back. And besides, he played too prominent role in the book to be killed :). 


End file.
